


#whereisfalcon

by perspi



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: #whereisfalcon, Darlene Wilson is tired of this shit, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Sam Wilson Birthday Bang, bureaucratic nightmare, mention of prison abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 22:04:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12198276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perspi/pseuds/perspi
Summary: How much does the rest of the world know what is going on during and after CA:CW? How much does Sam’s family know?What if Sam’s mom takes it upon herself to demand transparency from the only Avenger left publicly standing, to ask Tony Stark where is her son? What if, as it becomes obvious that the ‘controversy’ over the Accords was much bigger than they’re letting on, she gathers a whole following, she reminds everyone that the Avengers are people too, and that their families deserve to know what happened? What if she harnesses the media spotlight to start a march from New York to Washington, asking all the while, Where is my son?What if, when Sam is finally out of the Raft he turns on the TV to find his mom, his family, his co-workers, and holy shit that is a lot of other people ranged behind her, all of them asking the same question:Where is Falcon?





	#whereisfalcon

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks and love to my wonderful artist RJ! Please go check out the AMAZING art for this fic [HERE](https://not-worms.tumblr.com/post/165776318264/my-first-art-contribution-for-the), and find more excellent art at [not-worms.tumblr.com](https://not-worms.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks to Raven for some initial beta thoughts, and thanks so much to the mods for this fabulous Bang!

 

The last time she talked to Sam she didn't realize it was the last time, and isn't that how it always goes? She'd called him after that terrible tragedy in Nigeria, told Sam to let Wanda know she'd be up to the compound come the weekend. That girl holds a soft spot in Darlene’s heart — but then, she's always been one for strays. Steve, too, needs some serious mothering now and then, and Sam is generous to a fault, always willing to share his mama’s attention. 

Sam called again, unexpectedly, the very next day, to let her know he was going with Steve to a funeral in London. He said something about Avengers business, too, but the conversation was so short and sweet she paid it no real mind. 

Until Sarah called her, voice high and worried, told her to get online and get the news on. Darlene ended up with eight windows open, switching between newscasts and written reports, all saying that her Sam (and Steve, and the new king of Wakanda) were arrested in Berlin for unauthorized participation in a manhunt. 

“This is some bullshit,” she murmured at the screen as she flipped between sites. 

Sam didn't call or text her back.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Pretty soon the manhunt became _for_ Captain Rogers and Sam, and there were confusing reports about superhero-caused destruction in Leipzig, and Sam was among those ‘detained.’

And that was it. After a few days of no more news, Darlene had enough.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sam isn’t sure where they are when they finally stop. It’s dark when Steve helps him out of the...whatever it is they’re flying, when Steve parks a still-half-asleep Sam on wide porch steps while he goes back to their transport. The jet looks like — Sam can’t manage much more than a head wiggle, but, no, that can’t possibly be right. 

He startles painfully more awake when the engines rev up behind Steve and Wanda as they get to the bottom of the steps, and Steve reaches for Sam’s outstretched hand with a steady one of his own, in spite of how he’s got Wanda in his other arm. “Hey, it’s okay,” Steve says, rock-solid, “Clint and Scott are going to where Fury stashed Clint’s family. We figured it’d be better to split up, for a bit.”

“We?” Sam asks. He lets his ass sit back down on the step, but he doesn’t let go of Steve, who seems perfectly happy to hold on right back.

“My...backer, I guess you’d say,” Steve answers. “Got me access, the resources to get to you.” They’re left in just moonlight as he steps closer and bounces Wanda a bit on his hip. She’s sleeping soundly with her face tucked against Steve’s neck, looking for all the world like an exhausted toddler, and Sam hopes like hell her sleep is genuine and not drugged, that she takes comfort from how Steve is holding her so securely. 

Sam nods. “So you got—”

“The two I can’t bear to part with, now I’ve got you out,” Steve says, soft, and he ducks his head to rub against Wanda’s cheek. “Wanda was supposed to go to a third location, but after I saw—” he sucks in a fortifying breath, his steadiness starting to crack, “— that fucking collar.”

“Change of plans,” Sam says, and Steve squeezes his fingers. 

“Yeah.” Steve looks up at the dark windows of the house. “We’ll be good here a couple days. Just a little farther, okay?” He shifts his grip in Sam’s hand, like he’s going to carry Sam, too.

“Yeah, all right,” Sam agrees, but he only lets Steve help him to standing. “Is Barnes already here?”

Sam can feel a ruthlessly-suppressed flinch in the twitch of Steve’s fingers before Steve lets go to lead them inside. “No, he’s...safe, for now,” and Sam decides to take that at face value, for all the pain he can hear in Steve’s voice. He needs about a week of uninterrupted sleep.

He follows them through the house, turning on lights as he goes (Steve can apparently see well enough, but Sam can’t), until Steve’s gently deposited Wanda in a bedroom and pulled off her slippers, tucked her under a blanket and propped the door mostly-shut. 

Steve shows Sam to a bedroom across the hall. “So this is you,” he half-whispers and points to a door on the far side of the room. “Bathroom through there, and, uh, there should be some clothes in the closet. You should sleep.” 

“You too, right?” Sam asks, because now that he can get a good look, Steve doesn’t look like he’s holding together all that well.

Steve swallows and rubs one hand down his face, lets out a halfhearted huff of a laugh. “Yeah, maybe. Soon.”

“Steve.”

“I really missed you, Sam,” Steve whispers, crumpled in on himself and unable to even look at Sam. Sam knows just what he’ll see; he knows the picture isn’t pretty but he’s not quite ready to deal with himself, not yet. “I just. I’m sorry I took so long.”

“Yeah,” is all Sam can reply, because he’s sorry, too. If he had more energy he might even be angry, but he’d sustained himself by aiming his anger outward, at his captors, his _jailors_ , and he’s run pretty dry. He can feel himself starting to crumble, too, shoulders curling in like Steve’s.

“Can I —” Steve moves carefully, slowly, just enough for Sam to see his arms out, to give Sam the choice. Sam lets himself fall into Steve’s big chest, wraps his arms around that ridiculous waist and finally, finally his body believes he’s really out, lets go of some last bit of adrenaline and shakes.

“I don’t even know how long it really was,” Sam admits quietly. 

“Almost three weeks.” Steve squeezes him, tight and comforting. Sam can smell Wanda on Steve’s shoulder.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Hello?” The voice on the other end sounded hesitant and clipped, perhaps British? Unfamiliar, at any rate. 

“Hello, I'd like to speak to Sam Wilson, please,” Darlene told him, because she would, very much. 

“May I ask who's calling?”

“Darlene Wilson, I'm his mother.”

“Ah,” the voice grew even more hesitant. “I'm afraid Mr. Wilson is unavailable.”

“I'm aware of that, sir, which is why I'm calling every single number he gave me in case of emergency when he became an Avenger. Can you tell me where I can find him?”

“I'm afraid I cannot,” the voice responded, almost regretful but Darlene had no real patience for polite. 

“Then put another Avenger on the line. Let me talk to Wanda or Steve or Tony - surely someone there can tell me what's going on and why Sam hasn't talked to me in three days.”

“I am sorry, Ms. Wilson, I cannot help you.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sam needs sleep, but he's achy enough he doesn't manage to sleep all that long. Steve’s side of the bed is cool when Sam reaches over, his warmth only half-remembered in the sheets.

Steve is at the stove when Sam shuffles into the kitchen. Soft classical music wafts from a little under-cabinet radio — almost like the one in the break room at the VA in DC — and there’s a distinct weariness in the slope of Steve’s shoulders while he works at the stove. Sam can’t help it, those shoulders are so inviting; he keeps on going until he can bury his face against one oversized lat muscle and get his hands where they belong up under Steve’s t-shirt.

Sam feels more than hears Steve huff out a little laugh. “Hey,” Steve says. “French toast okay?”

He really wants All the Breakfast, but he also doesn’t want to move, so Sam just sort of groans against Steve’s back and leans a little harder. 

Steve doesn’t even shift. “There’s coffee, too, when you’re ready.”

They stay like that for a long while, Sam soaking up Steve’s warmth and Steve carefully flipping toasts so as not to jostle Sam. They stay like that long enough that Steve settles into humming along with the radio, that big chest vibrating under Sam’s cheek.

If there’s a damp spot in the middle of Steve’s back when Sam finally goes for his coffee, neither of them mention it.

Wanda appears at the table by the time Steve sets a big platter of French toast down. She’s pale and drawn, but drags up a little smile for Steve and a touch on the wrist for Sam. They get halfway through the platter of toast before Steve speaks up.

“I, uh. We’ll be good here, for a little bit. There’s contingency plans, depending on what you want to do, but, ah. We’ve got a little time to rest, first.”

“Where is here?” Sam asks; he’s had enough of not knowing. 

“A little island off the Canadian Atlantic coast, if you can believe it.” Steve starts shredding a napkin between his fingers. “I’m not sure who owns the island but I was assured it was safe. I…” he pulls in a deep breath, obviously weighing how much to share, “I had a lot of help, to get you out.”

Wanda reaches to tangle her fingers with Steve’s. “Did you stop Zemo?”

“Not really,” Steve admits softly, his face scrunched up with hurt. Sam takes his other hand, and Steve grips them both tightly. “Zemo killed the soldiers in their tubes, but a bullet in each of their heads. Then he waited for us, for Tony to get there.” Sam flinches but Steve won’t let him pull his hand away.

“I figured you’d told him, Sam,” Steve reassures him, “it’s okay. It’s — I guess Zemo wanted us all together, wanted to show Tony that, that Buck— that the Winter Soldier killed his parents.”

“Jesus,” Sam mutters and drives his last piece of toast around the plate with his fork. Wanda’s got her free hand over her mouth.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “I guess Zemo got out while Tony was busy trying to kill Bucky; King T’Challa told me later that he kept Zemo from killing himself. So now,” he sighs, heavy, “Bucky’s arm is gone, _again_ , and he’s in cryo, _again_ , except it was his fucking choice this time so nobody can use those goddamned words, and —”

“And you got us out,” Wanda finishes. Sam thinks his face mirrors what he’s seeing on Wanda and Steve’s, that all three of them look set to crumple up and collapse but they’re too damn stubborn to go quietly. “You came for us, Steve, and we’re _here_ , and I think you need time to rest, too.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Darlene went to Stark Tower three days running, trying loudly and failing discreetly to get an appointment with Tony Stark. Finally, eventually, she was ushered into a bland little office that probably doubled as a holding cell for security - - it was definitely not the office of the sharp-looking woman waiting for her there. 

“Maria Hill,” the woman introduced herself and gestured to the only other chair. “If you will, Mrs. Wilson.”

Darlene perched herself cautiously. “If you can’t get me a meeting with Tony Stark or tell me where my son is, I’m afraid I won’t have much time for you, Ms. Hill.”

That earned her the barest flinch before Ms. Hill slid a manila folder across the desk. “Officially, Mrs. Wilson, all I can do is provide you with the statement the government has provided the press. Mr. Wilson is being detained in violation of the Sokovia Accords —”

“Which don’t seem to have their full text available to the public, anywhere,” Darlene cut in, and Ms. Hill’s posture tightened like she was just as angry as Darlene. She pushed the folder even closer and pitched her voice low.

“Unofficially, I have personally worked with Sam on a number of occasions, and the things your son can do with a rocket strapped to his back are frankly amazing. Unofficially, the man you really need to be bothering is Thaddeus Ross.”

She shouldn’t have been surprised to find someone willing to help her — they do exist, on occasion — but Darlene was still a bit taken aback by the way Ms. Hill spat the Secretary of State’s name. She set a cautious hand on the folder, and said, equally quietly, “Men like that don’t generally respond to bothering by little old ladies.”

“They do if it’s a very public bother,” Ms. Hill replied with a feral little smile, and she tapped the folder once before standing up, all business again. “Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” she said crisply, then whispered as she turned to the door, “Give ‘em hell.”

Darlene had a distinct feeling that perhaps she — like Sam — had just gotten herself into something really, _really_ big. 

Darlene flipped the folder open as she walked back out into the New York sunshine, flipping it closed again as soon as she saw that Ms. Hill had taped a tiny data card to the inside of the folder, neatly labeled “SA” - if it _was_ the full text of the Sokovia Accords, if they were as awful as the secrecy suggested they were, this was _leverage_. 

Sam certainly came by his ways honestly, she thought as a throb of excitement tingled in her fingers, ideas taking shape fast. For Sam, she was up for it. For Sam, Darlene would give them hell all the way to D.C.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
For all that Sam and Wanda try to get themselves and Steve to have a day of rest, it’s surreally difficult to just...do something restful, after breakfast. They’re in a strange house on a strange plot of land, none of them really want to turn on the television but they don’t really want to be alone with their thoughts, either. Sam’s been alone with his thoughts for weeks, now, and Wanda — Sam isn’t sure Wanda’s even had that much.

They end up out on the porch swing, Wanda and Sam, both cradling hot coffee mugs and watching the far trees sway in the breeze. Sam can hear, just barely, Steve talking to somebody on a burner phone. Probably coordinating their next step; Steve isn’t really one to stop and rest, either.

Sam’s just settled into an almost-comfortable half-aware drift when Wanda asks, “How are you doing?” 

“I’m fine,” Sam says, almost reflexively, and Wanda gives him a wan look.

“Sam.”

He pauses, lets himself recognize — “Yeah, I’m not fine. But what about you?” He very pointedly takes a sip of his coffee.

Wanda offers a delicate little shrug. “A good sleep and a good breakfast go a long way. I know —” she takes a deep breath, leans a little against Sam’s shoulder, “I know that the first day or two is hardest, finding your feet again. It is easier this time, knowing how it feels to be pulled from a prison.”

His whole body flushes hot in a wash of adrenaline; Sam carefully sets his coffee cup on the porch rail and settles back against Wanda. “We. I knew we were in for it, staying behind so Steve and Barnes could get out, but they—” he twists his fingers together hard; they were there together and if anyone deserves his honesty, it’s Wanda. He still can’t bring himself to do more than whisper it.

“I don’t know why I expected better, you know? I’m a target the minute I leave my door, I’ve seen what the military can do, I goddamn _know_ , you know? I just—” and Wanda pulls his hands apart, tangling her fingers in between, holding on and letting him grasp her back. “I guess I didn’t really let myself feel it before, like maybe I still had some trust in there somewhere.”

“We have both been betrayed by our own, Sam,” she tells him just as softly. “But I am glad we’ve made it out together.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “We’re probably all a long way from okay, huh?” He kicks the swing into a gentle sway; he can feel that anger — that sustaining fire, that driving feeling of _purpose_ — start to bank itself again behind his ribs. “But we’ll get there.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Darlene had been to four law firms, to very little luck; she wasn’t really holding out hope for the fifth one, either. The defense lawyer she met with, Bernie Rosenthal, had left Darlene in her conference room for well over half an hour. It was possible Bernie (as she’d asked to be called) would help, or maybe she was asking her partners how best to turn Darlene down.

Bernie was barefoot and a little breathless when she strode back in and slid into her seat. “Mrs. Wilson, I’m just—” she took a deep breath and shoved her mass of dark hair over her shoulder, “I’m just going to tell you what my partners told me: A criminal defense lawyer is not what you need.”

“I see,” Darlene answered, sharp with disappointment.

Bernie tapped the back of Darlene’s hand before she could stand up. “A criminal defense lawyer is not _only_ what you need. Your son is an _Avenger_ and an American citizen, and he’s currently being detained in alleged violation of an international agreement that was made secretly, likely in violation of several American and international laws? You need a whole goddamn team, you need constitutional law experts and media people and the ACLU is _also_ going to be really interested and what we’re proposing here, Mrs. Wilson, the national recognition alone — my partners and I would like you and your son as clients. All of my partners.”

 _Well, that was unexpected,_ Darlene thought. She felt a little faint. “All of your partners?”

“I think your idea of making this public, making this a _big_ public to-do, is a great one. I have a few public-relations contacts, can I help you get that set up? And you’re sure that Sam will agree to our representation when we do get hold of him?”

“You tell him his mama sent you, and he will if he knows what’s good for him.”

Bernie outright laughed at that. “Oh, and one more thing, Mrs. Wilson. My partners and I would like to do this pro bono.”

Darlene always has a handkerchief in her purse and this, right here, this was why.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Eventually Sam goes to find Steve, who’s set up at the kitchen table with papers all around and an ancient-looking brick of a laptop pushed to the side. “Hey, Sam,” Steve says with a warm smile, setting down a pencil and reaching to snag one of Sam’s hands. He draws Sam closer, just to hold Sam’s hand against his heart; Sam can’t help leaning down just a bit to nuzzle at the top of Steve’s head. “I just talked to my contact, we’re going to move again tomorrow, before dawn.” 

“Mmm,” Sam acknowledges. “So whatcha doing now?”

Using his free hand to spread the papers out further, Steve’s chest rumbles with his answer. “Just...thinking, mostly. And sketching my best guy.”

The papers are covered with fast-and-loose drawings of Sam, from a number of angles. For all he’s seen the way Steve sketches, Sam still gets a little thrill at the way Steve draws him, like Sam’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

He’s almost ready to say something about one of the sketches when his gaze lands on what’s next to the laptop. Sam recognizes them as the tiny, ultra-high-capacity drives that Natasha tends to carry in her pockets like spare change. Ten of them are lined in two neat rows, little black beetles full of secrets.

“What are those?” 

“Shit,” Steve breathes, going tense all over before tugging Sam around to sit on the far side of the table from the laptop, not once letting go of his hand. “Sam, I was trying to figure out how to tell you—”

“Steve, _what are those_?” That hot flush of adrenaline is back; if Steve weren’t holding on Sam would probably be out the door.

“Records. From the prison, they called it the Raft. I copied everything.” Steve’s expression is twisted in anguish, like he’s already—

“Fuck,” Sam whispers, his shoulders curling forward. “You saw.”

Steve leans forward enough to invite Sam to rest his forehead on his shoulder, so Sam feels more than sees Steve’s nod against the side of his head. Steve’s voice is rough and low in his ear. “I saw enough. I’m...I’m not going to say what I really want to, because I know it’s not really going to help right now, but when you’re ready, Sam. I’m here for you, to help make this right however I can.”

He can’t help the tremors running through him, can’t bring himself to look away from the floor between them. “Destroy those fucking things,” he whispers.

“Sam—”

“Goddamn it, Steve!” He shoves away and stands up, uncaring about the chair clattering behind him. “What is there to do with that shit? It’s not fucking Hydra you expose this time, it’s ME! It’s Clint, and Scott, and Wanda!”

Steve doesn’t even get up from his own chair, just holds his hands open, pleading and helpless. “That is exactly why people need to see it, Sam.”

“I don’t—” Sam rubs one wrist across his eyes, “I didn’t want you to see that, any of it. You release it, _everyone_ sees, Steve. You know my family’s gonna watch it, I’m gonna have to confront it again and again the rest of my life. We need to des—”

“Sam! Steve! SAM COME HERE!” Wanda yells from the living room.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Hello, and thank you all for coming today.” Darlene spoke into the microphone with all the power given her by years of corralling grade-school children. The crowd in front of Stark Tower was satisfyingly sizeable — the media people had gotten a number of cameras in attendance, and the neighborhood and VA contacts had done the rest.

“My name is Darlene Wilson. Many of you may know my son, Samuel Thomas Wilson. More of you probably know my son as the Avenger the _Falcon_. Some of you may know Sam as a veteran of the Air Force; he was a decorated pararescue jumper and a counselor with the Veterans Administration. 

”My son is also missing.

“The United States Government has told the press that Sam is being detained — along with other members of the Avengers — in violation of the Sokovia Accords. Although they had no public comment, indeed have not, before now, even been available for public viewing in the U.S., these Accords were apparently ratified last week at the U.N., were apparently created by the World Security Council. 

“Now, fellow New Yorkers will remember with me that when the Incident occurred, it was the Avengers who put themselves between us and the invading alien forces, while the World Security Council was willing to detonate a nuclear weapon over our city. Fellow Americans will remember with me that it was the World Security Council — with Hydra at its core — that built the helicarriers. I am proud to say that I was among the targets deemed a ‘threat to Hydra,’ and I am even prouder to say it was Falcon, and Captain America, and Black Widow, who brought those evil machines down.

“I do not know why my son is being detained — the World Security Council, the U.N., and the American government have not disclosed what part, exactly, of the Sokovia Accords my son allegedly violated. I have not been allowed to know whether I can supply him with the legal representation that is his right as an American citizen. I do not know where he is, or whether he is alive.

“So I call upon Tony Stark, as a member of the Avengers. I call upon Secretary Thaddeus Ross, as an architect of the Sokovia Accords. I call upon the American public, to read carefully the Accords that I have released to multiple news organizations. I call upon the American public to join me in asking Secretary Ross to explain how he can detain American citizens without Constitutional protections under these Accords. Tomorrow morning, if I have not yet heard from my son, I will begin a march directly to Washington, from right here in front of Stark Tower. I will continue to call upon the American public and the American government, until I find him I will ask: Where is my son? Where is Falcon?”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
They barrel into the living room together, ready for anything, but Wanda’s just perched on the arm of a chair, pointing at the television. “You guys need to see this,” is all she says as she cranks the volume on the television and Darlene Wilson’s voice fills the room.

Just like that, Sam’s knees won’t hold him anymore and he collapses with a hard stop on the coffee table. She’s right there, in her five-foot-nothin’ glory and best Sunday dress, in a spot that Sam recognizes is across from Stark Tower. She is surrounded by Sam’s sisters, by veterans and a frankly astounding number of people. Her voice is that same stern-resounding tone that he grew up with, and Sam suddenly misses her so hard his chest hurts.

It takes a long moment for him to register what, exactly, she’s so stern about, for the scrolling words at the bottom of the screen to make sense. When they do, though, Sam’s heart hurts anew: Mama Wilson, his sisters, all those people, they’re looking for him. They don’t know why he helped Steve or refused to sign the Accords, they’re not even sure he’s alive. The more he listens, the more he realizes that they’ve been stonewalled at every turn but his family has been trying to get him a lawyer, a message, anything — and the timestamp on the video was almost two weeks ago.

The camera switches to a new view, a split screen with a talking head saying that Darlene has been walking for over a week, marching from New York to Washington, next to video where Darlene is doing just that, marching among a crowd of people, half of them carrying signs asking **#whereisfalcon**?

“Oh, my God,” Sam gasps, finally recognizing the tears rolling down his face, finally registering that Wanda’s moved to sit next to him and has hold of one of his hands, that Steve has fallen to his knees and wrapped his arms around everyone. “Oh, God, that’s my mom.”

“It looks like she’s causing a ruckus,” Steve rumbles, his voice thick, and Wanda lets out a tearful, hiccuping little giggle.

“That sounds just like your mom, Sam,” she agrees.

They watch the whole segment through their tears, all three of them squeezing each other tight. When it’s over Wanda flips the TV off and Steve fishes an honest-to-God handkerchief out of his pocket for Sam, who wipes off his face and realizes his first, knee-jerk reaction in the kitchen isn’t actually what he wants at all.

“Steve,” Sam says urgently, spinning around so they’re eye to eye. He turns to take Wanda’s hand again, tells her, “Wanda, Steve copied all the records from the prison, we have them all.”

Wanda swears in a language Sam doesn’t know.

“Guys, we need to release them,” Sam says, leaning into Wanda’s shoulder and looking over at Steve’s ruddy face. “I need to talk to Mama, and then we need to release all that shit. Those fuckers think they can bury us, they think they can ignore _my mom_ —”

“You don’t ignore Mama Wilson!” Wanda sounds like the outrage glowing in Sam’s chest has been given voice.

“She needs ammunition, we’re gonna give it to her. But I don’t want her to get to D.C. without knowing we’re okay.”

“I’ll make it happen, Sam,” Steve promises. “All of it.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Darlene has been in Maryland for an hour, walking in front of a group of pro football players who make her feel like she’s got a tractor-trailer tiptoeing behind her, when her phone rings. She’s left a lot of messages; she’s ready to give one of those Pentagon bastards a piece of her mind.

“Darlene Wilson,” she answers crisply.

But then it’s Sam’s voice in her ear, choked with emotion, “Hey, Mama.”

“Oh, Lord Jesus,” Darlene exclaims, catching Sarah’s eye so she can wave everyone to a stop behind her. She keeps going a bit, away from the crowd. “Sam?”

“Yeah, Mama, it’s me, I’m okay, I’m okay! Wanda’s here with me, and Steve, we’re safe now, we’re all safe.” The way he says it —

“You weren’t, though, were you. You haven’t been safe this whole time.”

Sam sighs into the receiver. “No, we weren’t. I can’t talk long, so I need you to listen. Steve got us out of where we were, and he got records, he got video. It’s not—” Sam takes a deep breath, and so does Darlene. “It’s not pretty, Mom, but it needs to be seen. We’re going to release it later today.”

“And you can do that, you can do this phone call, and still stay safe?” There’s sweat running down Darlene’s back that has nothing to do with the walking.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that, we’ve got, we’ve got good help, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. I’m in a good place for now, I promise.”

“Oh, praise God,” Darlene murmurs, and Sam’s chuckle is warm against her ear.

“I saw you on the news, it looks like you’ve got a real thing going.”

“We’re going to bring you home, Samuel, I promise you I’m gonna fight to bring you home.”

“I know,” Sam answers quietly. “I gotta go, but Mama: I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby bird. I’m so proud of you.”

“Love you,” is the last thing she hears before the connection cuts out.

Darlene puts the phone to her chest and sits right down on the curb, uncaring about the murmur of the crowd behind her or the traffic whizzing by. She curls in, gasping, giving in to the storm of tears that threatened the minute she heard Sam’s voice. Her baby, her baby, her Sam, he’s safe, he’s _safe_ , Sam and Wanda and Steve are together and can keep each other safe, they’re going to be okay.

Eventually, though, she gets back up, gets ready to go back to the crowd and the spotlight that’s going to help her see justice done and Sam where he belongs at home. She's not quite to Washington yet, and she's got asshole politicians to bother when she gets there.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [And Miles to Go Before I Sleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046806) by [Cluegirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl)




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